


don't know why (he's just my type)

by oncewewerezombies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Horror, Dream Bubbles, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Puppets, References to Canon, Unreliable Narrator, Weirdness, sentient doll, sex worker Bro, wound fuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 06:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15575796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: You like it weird.He's pretty fucking weird. All in all, it's a pretty self evident match.





	don't know why (he's just my type)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HorseSteppin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HorseSteppin/gifts).



> Don't care how, don't care why, but Bro and Doc Scratch are fuckin'. My only caveat is Doc Scratch must be the puppet man he is in canon - otherwise, go nuts. Bonus points for involving other Felt members, in one way or another, but not necessary. - HorseSteppin
> 
> So this uh. This got weird. Please enjoy.

The first time you'd come across this green mansion on a rock floating in space, you'd been...well. Somewhat surprised. 

It'd been some terrible monstrosity in violent lime green, something silently screaming that it was a nightmare abomination spawned by someone who had absolutely no taste at all. Or had read too many VC Andrews novels (hopefully without the distressing regularity of incestual bonding). A Southern Gothic Noir mansionette. In bright. Bright. Fucking lime green, no less. There had been a bowl of candy scottie dogs on the table in the hallway, with a few on the floor, there were signs of burning and rambunctious behaviour up and down its halls. You'd advanced cautiously, but you'd advanced all the same. You know what you were. You were fucking _dead_. No second chances that counted, a footnote in the lil man's heroic story arc of a narrative. The sternly tender guardian slash father figure who taught him how to fight, what was up and what was cool, then let him loose on his hero's journey. Something like that.

Point was, you were a beginning and not an ending and you knew that. You've always known that. It's weird being dead, because that sense of absolute certainty that everything you are and everything you are doing is totally correct has dissolved out of your backbone. Sometimes you're not...completely certain that you did the right thing by the lil dude. He was alive though, wasn't he? One of him. Somewhere. Going to win the shit out of this fucking nightmare fuel game with his friends beside him. You did the right thing. You had to believe that. Otherwise what the fuck was everything for? 

Whatever you were expecting when you died, this wasn't fucking it.

That's all you know. And you're starting to realise you don't know much. You definitely don't know as much as you thought you did. Maybe that Cal didn't know much at all either, no matter how much he loved to shoot his fuckin' mouth off.

You'd thought that the house was empty to start with. You've got a knack for knowing when there's someone there, just this sense of presence that'd saved your ass on more than one occasion on the mean mean streets of Houston. Texas. Don't get you wrong, it wasn't Compton but you weren't hanging in the most salubrious of areas no matter what else was going on. Cal in your head and your hands spinning beats, hands on the wrapped hilt of a katana, on the curves of a smuppet - you didn't even know what the fuck you were doing half the time - anyway. He's here. Waiting for you. Just about your perfect man. Most people wouldn't think so.

His voice eases through the cracks in your head like magic. Miracles. Science. It's something. It's bright white against white, it's something startling. It almost makes you feel alive, despite the ache in your chest. That deep bloody wound that you hide behind polo shirts with popped collars that are as white as the lack of a face that he's got going on. Riiight through your fucking lack of a heart, that's where it lies, the wound where the dog thing from a bad 80s horror movie killed you.

It's good, anyway. You like the way he talks to you. You make your way into the mansion, empty and echoing and find him where hes waiting for you. In the study, seemingly limp and lifeless in a chair. You climb up into it and straddle him, caress the curves of his billiard ball head with your hands. Callouses not catching on one single thing, whether it's your sewer's thumb or the hard places you've built up handing a sword. It's a perfect smooth sphere, there's nothing for your rough hands to hook into.

You might be dead, but you can still get a hard-on. You sit in his lap, and he wakes up under you. Life filling his arms, his legs, all the way down his body. Fills him up, until gloved hands run up your back, down to the trim taut glutes of your ass. Gripping you, while you run your hands over the smooth shape of his head, down his shoulders, before you deign to give him one single fucking kiss on the top of his head.

"So you came back again. Despite how literally anything else would probably be a better use of your time."

"Did you think I wouldn't be heading back this way?" Sometimes you miss the fact that he doesn't have a mouth, like right now when you really want something responsive to kiss, but it's cool. You can get over it. He's practically perfect in every way as it is, just like Mary Poppins. You run your thumbs up the length of his suspenders, and feel your mouth stretch into a wolfish smile as his head tilts almost inestimably to the side. God fucking damn it, he made you fucking emote. What's wrong with you. "I'm findin' it hard to stay away from your sexy bod."

The ripple in your head isn't quite a laugh, maybe the equivalent of a dry chuckle but you take what you can get. He's as sparse with praise or emotive content as you are, and expects just as little. Suits you. There's a tap at your butt from his plushly gloved fingers and you stay a while longer just to prove your point that you do what you want, before shifting. You linger in his backdraft, flashstepping when he gets too far ahead for your liking, all the way up to his bedroom. Does a puppet really need a bedroom? You don't know, but he's got one. You don't understand why, since he seems to collapse wilfully in the chair you saw him in the first time on the regular. Doesn't seem to you like he really needs it. All the same he's got one all set up for him with its bare fucking minimum. What you mean by that, is that it's got a bed and fuck all else. After the first time, you'd vetoed being the one on your back because god damn was it as fucking flat as a summer camp mattress and just as uncomfortable. He doesn't have nerve endings the way you do (even though you're _deaaaad, boy_ ), he can be the one lying on the fucking shitty wood board with lumps in all the wrong places masquerading as a mattress that he's got, not you.

Sometimes you think about him when you're not even doing anything. You're kind of obsessed, even if you don't think he knows that. He's just so fucking perfect.

Getting out of your clothes slowly, you turn your head a little so you can watch him undress too. All these neat, snappy little movements, like he's some fucking debonair gentleman instead of a masculine presenting puppet with a giant snooker ball for a head. He folds shit and puts it away neat in his armoire; you'd usually do something the same but you know it drives him up the wall that you don't - so you don't. Once you're both naked, he folds down onto the bed for you and you straddle him, the ass more than a few concerning perverts have fapped off to the detriment of their wallet coming to rest on the place where his dick _would be_ , if he. You know. Had a fucking dick.

You did mention that he was a puppet right?

Not everyone builds their puppets the way you do, and that's a crying fucking shame. Not that this isn't fun, but it'd be even more fun if he was fully equipped. You let your facade crack, and allow yourself an eighth of a devilish grin as you put your hand behind yourself as a support and start to rock. Feeling the rough felt of the smoothness where his crotch should be making sure that you'd have a wicked case of friction burn in an almost embarrassing place if you had to really worry about that kind of shit now. The gloved hand comes up to stroke your thighs, along your scars, up the line of your hip. You're getting used to not just recognising his signals, but wanting to follow them at least some of the time and you move yourself so you're leaning over him. Letting him trace fingers over your mouth, your chin but not going near your shades. Everybody gets some kinda wall, right. Some defence. 

You put your hand around what should be his throat and squeeze, letting him run those softly silken hands down your chest. Even rub at your perky nips, then across to the wound transecting your sternum. His thumb presses against the slit edges and you shudder, the skin outrageously sensitive in a way you're still not used to. Shit in there is not meant to be fucking touched, it's no bueno - except how it's really, _really_ fucking muy fantastico.

His other hand slips into place around your dick, jacking you rough and too dry. The precum you're starting to dribble out the tip nowhere near efuckingnough for the sahara that is the cloth palm of his hands. Doesn't matter. You like it like this, hurting just a bit. Not enough. None of this is enough, everything's blunted but you're both doing your best. You don't think he feels sexual pleasure, not the way you do. Messy human body with its organs and glands, chemicals and wet wet meat. You glide your hands over the lower part of his head, the feel of it cool and pleasant to touch, and down to the stitching that holds his arms onto his body. 

Rasp it with a crooked thumbnail, delicately. Pulling at the thread and threatening to sever it.

The good doctor shudders underneath you and those just a little bit clumsy cotton-stuffed fingers dip into the wound on your chest. You grunt and thrust your hips forward hard. Fuck. That is about as close as he'll actually get to fucking with you, and it fucks with your head. You're not used to being this bare in front of anyone. You guess if you have to have someone understand you from the inside out, the inscrutable omniscient puppet man who lives on the remnants of an alien moon is about as safe as it's gonna get. Not like he has a lot of visitors dropping around to drink tea with their pinkies out and discuss the labyrinth patterns of your mind.

"Scratch - you _shit_ -"

"My apologies, Mister Strider. Does it discomfit you?"

"You know exactly what it fucking well does, you - nnnngh, you heap of mismatched stitches," you groan out breathless as he fingers you in a hole you shouldn't have. His laugh is a glissando in the empty spaces you know you've got in your head, a shattering of crystal and glass. You can already feel yourself shivering with the pressure to orgasm, that pleasurable wrack all across your body and he tucks his pinkie _inside_. Rubbing from the inside out and you throw your head back, letting out a noise like you haven't since you played the twink in some Euro porno when you were getting your start. And you'd been _faking_ it for the cameras back then. None of this shit is faked, it's a fucking nauseating keen of want, of too much - too soon - you don't want to cum yet.

You pull his hand away from the wound and bring it firmly down to your pert ass. You might be the one getting fucked - figuratively speaking - but you're still the one in control. This is _your_ game. Not the one that you were born to play, but a high scoring game that had meant that you could raise the lil man with all the luxuries of shit like high speed internet, a roof over his head and hot pockets. Well. Sometimes there were hot pockets, sometimes even AJ, but at least there'd always been internet and a place to put both your heads. Even if it had been one hell of a shithole, that bonny bouncing lil cockroach motel of an apartment in the ghettos of Houston.

"Bringing out the big guns already? Feels like you're not sure of your charm, monseigneur." Your voice is a mocking drawl, but you know if he had a fucking face, he'd be smirking. Your answer to that is to slither down so you're both lying belly to belly and get your teeth into those minute fucking stitches around the stem of his neck. His hand grabs at your shoulder, soft, plush, drags down your spine to your ass to get a good handful. If he'd had fingernails, you'd have been walking away from this looking like you'd tangled with a cougar. Meeeow, down girl. Ain't no honey blonde sugar mamas with bright red nails and mouths here, just you and good old Doc Scratch.

You hump against him like a teenager with a handful of titty and the keys to his daddy's car, while your teeth pluck at every thread you can find with your mouth. He gives you such an itch, such a need. You hate it, you crave it, you keep coming back like a good old hound dog but it's worth it to feel this body of cotton and cloth almost convulsing under you. Making him feel things. Making him experience shit that you don't think anyone else has even tried to give him.

Pleasure? Pain? You don't even know. It makes him feel something, that's all you've figured out. You give it to him, in spades. Your cock rubbing up the inside of his thigh, against the softness of his hip. You nip and bite, get your fingernails into any loop you find. Tug and pull, so gently, feeling his fabric come with it. He doesn't gasp and pant like you do, but he shudders. You _know_ you're having an effect. Those movements he makes. He can't stop himself. Can't help it. He's reacting to you. What you're doing.

It's better than anything you've made yourself. He's so finely, perfectly put together. Each stitch is in exactly the right place, the thread bearing its load like a dream. His joints move, swivel and bend. He's so perfect. 

You kinda want to meet whoever sewed Scratch into being. Then you sort of want to kick their fucking ass.

Why the _fuck_ didn't they give him a _fucking_ dick?!

Getting a moan out of him is out of the question. But you're getting what you can, you're milking it for all you can get. He moves, shifts underneath you like he's really responding. Really wants this. You don't know what makes him tick, you don't pretend to understand his motivations but you know you're getting to him. It's not lust the way you know it, but it's pretty fucking close, brah. Silken hands roam up and down your back, grabbing at your ass and then at your cock. You groan out a low moan and sit up again, letting him touch you the way he wants. Feels good. Makes you want it too.

This time, when he moves his fingers to the deep sword wound, you don't stop him. Your own gloved hand encircles your straining erection and you jerk yourself off, briskly, efficiently. Run your tongue over your lip and moan like the consummate porn star you are. People paid good handfuls of folding digital decimal points to see this shit. When you'd been alive and in the world. Now you're beyond that, but you want to think - you have to believe - that this does something to him. For him. Otherwise why did he keep letting you in, letting you come back in and do this?

Whatever. Maybe he's just got a thing for a pearl necklace. You ain't gonna judge. You've got way weirder shit lurking in the back of your head with what gets your engines really revving. Kokoro going doki doki, et fucking cetera. He hits so many of your fucking buttons that just looking down at him gets you straight into turbo. Feeling your breath getting quicker, muscles tensing, blood rising, rushing like a fucking river over the mountain high. You don't wait for him to say what's on his mind, you can feel it coming. Rocking your hips, you fuck your hand and let yourself go. Nir-fucking-vana. You shoot cum up over his chest to his neck, covering him in it. Pale white fuzz coated in sticky off-white. Jizz ain't quite as stark white as the cloth he's been sewn out of, and no matter how many times you coat him in your biological material, you don't leave a lasting mark. Selfishly, territorially, you fucking want to. Guess you'll just have to keep doing it a few more times. Until you leave a mark that stays.

Maybe one of these times you'll manage it. 

His hands pull you down onto him, beside him on the bed. It's so very fucking uncomfortable. You're breathing hard, still shuddering with the aftermath. Spunk drying on his chest, as he lets you. Fuck. It's not cuddling, you don't fucking cuddle but you can...lie next to him. With him. Catch your breath. His fingers trail down your treasure trail, tracing blond hairs down from your belly button to your groin, where you're lying a little fucking spent. Flesh has its limits, even dead flesh. You let out a deep sigh, feeling the cool weight of his head on the pillow next to you.

"You know what?"

"What?"

His voice is too amused, but you forge on anyway. You're too fucking moe to go all tsundere. If you see something you want, you'll go for it. You're too selfish not to. 

"You really should let me sew you up a dick." He goes still for a moment, before curling into you. You can tell that for him, this is a helpless convulsing laughgasm. Nothing he could hold back. So you grin like the asshole you are, and persist. "What? Just a thought, you know, just throwing it out there, bro - I can stitch you the best fuckin' dick in the business, you better believe it-" 

"I'll. Consider it."

You laugh out loud, not able to help yourself at the almost prudish, choked up sound of his voice. Turning into him, you press your face against the cloth of his shoulder and breathe in. He doesn't smell like anything alive, unless you put the smell on him and you love that. 

"You do that. Fucking consider it, babe."

God damn, you're fucked up. 

You're dead. Maybe it's time to take a moment for you, you know. Maybe you can just...have this. Whatever it is. His fingers stroke your chest, and you feel something in yourself relax. Let go. It's not like you've got anything else better to do. What happens to the mentor when the hero achieves his journey's goal? Usually, they're pretty unable to take advantage of it. You got something like an epilogue, even if it isn't exactly what you would have picked.

It's something. 

You feel like you've always been an easy going guy, so you guess you'll take it. Puppet dude with billiard ball head and all.


End file.
